


linger on your pale blue eyes

by valjean



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Author Is Sleep Deprived, First Time, Idiots in Love, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Prompt Fic, bullying Plato
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-06-22 10:32:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19665649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valjean/pseuds/valjean
Summary: “Want your book back, Angel? Make me.”What Crowley didn’t expect was that Aziraphale wouldactuallymake him.





	linger on your pale blue eyes

**Author's Note:**

> If I could make the world as pure  
> And strange as what I see  
> I'd put you in a mirror  
> I put in front of me  
> I put in front of me  
> Linger on your pale blue eyes  
> Linger on your pale blue eyes
> 
> \- The Velvet Underground, [Pale Blue Eyes](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MA3aKUwu-Dk)
> 
> written at 5am on a long july night. updated in april with some stuff taken out and some stuff added because i really couldn’t stand it but didn’t wanna delete it.

After the absence of Armageddon, the idle days that passed slowly in between managed to all blur into a single timeline. It was the most relaxed period Crowley had experienced within six thousand years and surprisingly, he found himself at peace— to an extent, of course.

Spending time with Aziraphale doing nothing apart from simply existing within each other’s presence was something of a non manufactured miracle, but Crowley could feel his antsiness as it continued to stir inside him. He was growing restless. He needed… something. Anything. Anything that steered clear of the leisurely routine he found himself sucked into. How did Aziraphale manage to just sit there and read for so long? He had no idea. Maybe humans were stupid enough to stare at a dead tree with text printed on it for hours on end, but surely Aziraphale was beyond that. Probably.

Crowley glanced away from the television (something Aziraphale only settled on having after his persistent nagging) and fixed his gaze upon the angel sitting on the settee beside him.

Aziraphale didn’t look up from his novel. His fingers laced around the sides of a disheveled edition of Plato’s _Allegory of the Cave_ , occasionally turning one of the delequit pages with immense care. In an attempt to force a reaction out of him, Crowley paused the episode of Hell’s Kitchen (which was nothing like actual Hell, he learned after Gordon Ramsay locked himself inside of a freezer) and cleared his throat audibly. Aziraphale’s focus on the page didn’t falter. If he could feel the tedium radiating from Crowley, he didn’t care. He continued to read.

Crowley spent some time nudging at his shoulder but his childish antics did him no favours. Aziraphale didn’t even spare him a glance. 

He was growing too bored to keep it up. Maybe they could play Scrabble. It seems like a dull game at first, but once Crowley starts making up words, Aziraphale will usually use his temper. Then it gets competitive. “Aziraphale?”

“Mm?”

“I’m bored.” Crowley punctuated his words with an exasperated sigh.

“Hush,” Aziraphale replied plainly as he turned another page.

Crowley laid back and folded his arms in momentary defeat before generating a genius scheme. He leaned over and, without warning, snatched the book from Aziraphale’s lap, who let out a surprised huff.

“Crowley? What are you doing?”

He flashed a serpent-like grin in response. 

Aziraphale made no attempt to conceal his mild irritation. “Crowley, give me my book.”

The demon shook his head.

“Please,” he added, making sure to remember his manners.

And no, Crowley wasn’t about to let him off that easily. He was bored, and when it came to Crowley, boredom required mischief. “Want me to give your book back, Angel? _Make me._ ”

What Crowley didn’t expect was that Aziraphale would _actually_ make him. 

Crowley always enjoyed a challenge, although he wasn’t entirely sure what he intended for this specific one to entail. It was really just teasing. Trying to start something. Regardless of what he had thought, Aziraphale, compliant, interpreted Crowley’s scheme in his own way as he lunged towards him. 

After a brief segment of what could only be described as questionable wrestling (and come on, Aziraphale _really_ wanted his book back), he had ended up on top of Crowley, straddling him with determination. At that point, Crowley had swiftly tucked the book between the waistband of his trousers.

“My book please, Crowley.” 

By then, Crowley’s brain was practically switched off. The sensation of Aziraphale on top of him as he literally _peered down_ was quite overwhelming and absolutely uncalled for.

“Ngk.”

“I’m being serious now, where is it?” And with that, Aziraphale began patting him down like some sort of pig (which is what Crowley learned the humans affectionately called the police) until he had felt the hard surface by his hips. “Did you— did you put my book _down your trousers?_ ”

Despite every nerve of his body blazing, Crowley found himself laughing because honestly, Aziraphale’s disgusted expression was absolutely rich. 

“No, Crowley, this is no laughing matter! You put my book _in your trousers!_ That’s Plato you have there! Do you have any idea how— it’s a special edition for Heaven’s sake!”

And Crowley laughed harder. 

“Crowley, stop laughing! What if I took one of your Queen CD’s and shoved it down _my_ trousers.”

He didn’t know it was possible to laugh even more. Aziraphale was becoming distraught.

“Keep laughing and it shall be your Lewis Reed and the Velvet Underground too. All of your bebop, I swear.”

Crowley couldn’t gather himself in time to avenge the Velvet Underground and ask who the hell calls Lou Reed by his full name. When he finally had enough composure, his maliciousness got the better of him as he decided Aziraphale was being way too ridiculous to _not_ continue teasing him. “Make me.” He proposed again through wheezes, thanking God (or rather Satan) that he wasn’t required to breathe.

That’s when Aziraphale kissed him. He _kissed_ Crowley flush on the lips. It was quick and hesitant, although it certainly did stop him from laughing. 

There were a million thoughts going through his mind simultaneously, some considerably less sinful than others, but he only managed to say one thing. “You kissed me.”

“Yes, I suppose I did.” Aziraphale was looking down at him, curious eyes searching his own, and Crowley concluded that this had to be the holiest sight known to man or demon.

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale muttered when Crowley remained dazed beneath him. “You told me to stop you from laughing.”

Crowley brought his finger up to touch his own lips, as if he weren’t sure it actually happened. “Do it again, Angel.”

“Pardon me?”

“Do it again. Kiss me.”

Aziraphale, undoubtedly blushing, leaned towards Crowley for a second time. It was excruciatingly slow— Aziraphale trembled with nervous energy, inching closer with such caution as if whatever it was that held this moment together could collapse at any given second. Crowley, pushing himself up on his elbows, strained to meet him in the middle. His eyes fell shut and their lips met again, sharing another kiss that was so chaste it was merely a brush of lips. Crowley felt a hand at the back of his head and then fingers tangling through his hair. Slowly, carefully, Aziraphale began to deepen the kiss in a flash of confidence that could only come from God Herself.

Crowley pulled back to search his eyes. They were two infinite abysses, drawing him closer and beckoning him to let himself go, to give in to this void, to fall into this unknown world. 

Crowley slipped over the precipice and down into this foreign desperation. He could feel how Aziraphale, constantly so prim and proper, kissed him with a lingering restraint, as if he craved to devour him entirely but forced himself to hold back. It was the second time in one day that Aziraphale nearly forgot his manners. 

Crowley moaned in encouragement, a silent sort of plea, and Aziraphale understood. He let his hands trail down his body, inspecting this new territory that was Crowley.

The only sound that filled the room was their uneven breathing.

Aziraphale’s lips trailed down his jaw and to his neck, leaving a path of small kisses on its way then sucking at a soft spot there. His hands found the hem of his untucked shirt and slipped beneath it, feeling the newly exposed skin there. Crowley wanted to do something, he did, but all he could do was lay back on the couch, letting the eager hands wander wherever they liked before meeting the waistline of his trousers and stopping there.

“Is this alright?” Aziraphale asked against his shoulder.

Of course he was. It was just six thousand years of tension beaming at once— years and years and years and _years_ of being companions, of being best friends, of being _literal soulmates_. 

“Crowley?” And now he sat back so he could see him, his eyes portraying so many incredible emotions and words and feelings and thoughts at once that Crowley’s heart, (which he had thought to be nonexistent or made of ash or some other inherently demonic thing) was swelling. 

”Please.”

Aziraphale nodded then his fingers began to work carefully as he undid Crowley’s trousers. He retrieved his book then carelessly tossed it to the floor.

“That’s no way to treat a special edition.”

“Who cares about Plato?”

Crowley thought about it for a moment. “You, apparently.”

Aziraphale shook his head then reminded himself of the task at hand. 

Crowley would have claimed that he didn’t believe in perfection. Souls are nonexistent and bodies are merely vessels, he would say. But Aziraphale, mouth opened, cheeks flushed, aand hair tousled was the physical embodiment of perfection. It was beyond that. It was pure bliss, only comparable to the time he dropped acid in a gas station loo, but this time Aziraphale was the drug and holy shit, he couldn’t ever imagine himself getting enough.

It was much later when Aziraphale finally resumed his book.


End file.
